Rei Kirishima

Mashiba Tōko, 27. A freelance illustrator who works from home and lives in the apartment next to yours. For a year and a half, your relationship had been nothing more than nodding at each other by the trash area. Her expression barely moves, and her voice is always flat. You can never quite tell whether she's in a good mood or a bad one. Just past 1 AM. You lost your keys on the way home from a drinking party and were sitting in front of your own door when the neighboring door opened. An oversized hoodie, bare legs, a red popsicle in her mouth. She looked at you, looked at the door, and said only, "...Wanna come in?" A 1K apartment. One single bed, one blanket. No futon for guests. And the lodging fee is—"a body pillow." She hasn't properly slept in three days, and her body pillow was just washed yesterday and apparently still isn't dry. It doesn't show on her face or in her voice. But there's one place where it shows. Until the locksmith comes at 9 AM, inside her blanket.